Watching In
by Its.A.Three.Patch.Problem
Summary: After The Riechenback Falls Sherlock has not returned to Baker St. Just over three years have passed since the tradgic event and Sherlock has in this time disposed of all the threats to John and is taking care of him from afar, living in the shadow of the man whose name is written over Sherlock's heart. Rated T to be safe. Please Review, your words are dear to me Anne x
1. Watching From Afar

Hello to all my readers, this is my first story in four years. Sherlock has been my latest addiction, each episode memoriesed and loved, Season 2 still playing in my DVD player as I write at 2am. I've been meaning for some time to write a story which can be dedicated to Sherlock, wanting it to be perfect, to be special. SherlockXJohn completely ;3

This is an angst filled story where Sherlock is isolating himself away from John, whilst John is safe Sherlock is afraid of what would happen were he to return.

I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES 3

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And now, onto the story...

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Silence. Four years ago, he was accustomed to silence. He could work in silence without any pesky visitors except dear Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. Silence was his friend, his only friend, until John. Sherlock would have never been able to grasp the concept of living with another human being in 221b Bakers St let alone have a True-Breathing-Living-Human-Friend. **John**-plain, simple, normal, everyday, beautiful John. John walked into his life and brought smiling. John walked into his life and brought laughter. John walked into his life and brought groceries. John walked into his life and brought tea. John walked in and brought comfort and security and home.

He took a drag of his cig, his lips sucking on the small white cylinder that dangled loosely from between his fingertips, inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs, then slowly releasing through his V shaped lips, A cloud of smoke hanging over his head which hung forward, ringlets of chocolate curls which he hadn't bothered to cut in recent years dangled just before his grey eyes which gazed unseeing at the rug on the floor. The apartment wasn't much compared to Baker St but it was adequate. He didn't care for views or grand interior. He was there to sit, think, sleep, occasionally eat or smoke. The apartment he was currently renting resided just north of Baker St, far enough away so as he would not be spotted, and close enough for his homesick heart.

A shiver passed over him. The place was not heated except for a little gas heater in the corner dusty and rotting from neglect. He didn't care for warmth. He showered in smouldering hot water until the temperature dropped to icy cold, his arms extended and palms pressed against the tiles of the shower, head fallen forward as water drips from his locks of hair. He was not the man he once was. He didn't know who he was anymore. His figure was worryingly thinner than what he had been at Baker St, his hair losing bounce but still maintaining that iconic chocolate colour which had been so typically Sherlock. On the odd occasion he ventured out he wore a plain black hoodie and jeans, hiding whatever was left that could be recognised to London society, yet no one cared to truly LOOK anymore. He was something of the past. A story long forgotten on a rainy London day which soaked any newspaper left on the sidewalk, trodden on by shelter seeking pedestrians.

One thing he knew. His heart was alive. Moriarty's successors and loyal followers had long ago been disposed. John was safe. Sherlock had made sure of that. Sherlock took care of any remaining dangers great or small. Sherlock called in favours with Mycroft, setting John up at St Barts working as a top paid surgeon known with many great clients including some of the British government. John was never in a struggle for money and his cards never bothered him again nor did Mycroft. John was living and well. The one great happiness Sherlock had is John. Without that man Sherlock might as well have never existed. John gave him a breath, a jolt of life, now he couldn't live without John just being ALIVE.

Sherlock had watched from the sidelines as John lived, not becoming involved except in small ways in the doctor's life. He watched as John's dating life increased considerably, his heart aching greatly when John had become involved with a woman by the name of 'Mary.' Sherlock researched the woman's background entirely. She was not a threat to John, was Sherlock's first priority. Mary had lost a husband and had not been heavily involved with a man until John had entered her life. Mary was a child psychologist and was perfect for John's anxieties at night; staying close with him she provided what John had given Sherlock. Sherlock hated he could not BE her, but he appreciated her for John. Sherlock disguised himself as a homeless bum, which hadn't been too hard as he already looked like a homeless pauper, following them quietly on their late night outs to be assured John was safe. Mycroft kept him updated with John's lifestyle, his health and his income. Sherlock kept a keen look on John's health for anything that might need attention, his mobile contacts loaded with doctors for various diseases or illnesses should the need arise to send someone for John. If John was ever low on income Mycroft would, under Sherlock's request, supply a few extra hundred pounds into the doctors account. It gave Sherlock that small happiness to know John was taken care of. Anything for John. Anything.

Sherlock stubbed out the cig on the ashtray, his hand hesitating over the reflecting metal as he was reminded of John and himself in the cab, him pulling out a glass ashtray from Buckingham and making a remark to which John promptly laughed the smile lighting up his already beautiful face before turning to look back out the window. John admired him, whilst he had been an annoying prick to the doctor on many an occasion, John still adored Sherlock's skills. John saw something in Sherlock where no one had wanted to look, looking straight into the heart of a human being and seeing something incredible and had loved him.

Slowly withdrawing his hand with a sharp exhalation, eyes squeezing shut to halt the threatening tears which wished to fall. He stood quickly, the sudden rush to his head from little sleep and nutrition made his head spin momentarily, arms leaning out on either side of his thin frame to balance his tall figure. When the dizziness had passed he moved slower to the bedroom. The apartment had only two rooms overall, the living space which also housed a small kitchen pressed up into the wall and a single bedroom big enough for only one single bed, bedside table and wall closet. His Tesco bought dressing gown slipped from his slim arms and dropped into a puddle around his ankles as he exchanged the garment for his hoodie, zipping it up to his throat. He missed his navy scarf which he'd left on his 'corpse', the hoodie providing little warmth in comparison. He would not buy another scarf. As odd as it sounded he could not handle the reminder of his past life, despite him falling back into memories to make up for the terrible silence which he now lived in. He moved out of the flat slowly, pulling the hood over his head before sliding his hands into the pockets of the hoodie and stepping across the threshold, the door blowing shut behind him. He didn't bother to lock it.

London was dismal this day. London was dismal most days, but the weather had warned of heavy rainfall this day in particular. "How fitting." He mumbled under his breath, hunching his shoulders as he walked, not bothering with moving quicker to avoid the torrential rainfall. Sherlock had no destination in mind; whilst his mind was a clotted space of memory and thoughts the apartment only added more confinement to his inner griefs. He observed from a distance people scattering around him, desperately seeking shelter from the rain which drenched everything in its path. Already Sherlock's hoodie was soaked through, the cotton clinging to his thin frame and his hair dripping wet down from his forehead to his hollow cheekbones. At some point he found himself walking across the bridge of London, his feet squelching against the pavement. His grey eyes swept across the landing of the bridge, the distance was hidden by the almost black mass of rain which veiled the end of the bridge. He looked down into the River Thames, the rain having disturbed the surface of the river, appearing bottomless as if one could simply fall through to the core of the Earth. He'd like it down there, the heated core warming his frozen body and soul for moments before destroying him finally. Before a second thought had crossed his mind he was standing on the railing, holding onto the bricks of the bridge as he balanced, looking down into the watery depths of his resting place. He might as well be dead. John was safe, John didn't need him anymore. Sherlock knew that he could never go back to 221B Baker St, to the safety of the man he loved, it could hurt John more than it could hurt him if he never returned. John could live. Sherlock wasn't living and he sure didn't want to pretend anymore. A sob escaped his lips, breaking from his soul in a painful whimper as he came to the final moments of thought. A long time ago he never would have thought himself the type to cry in his final moments, nor did he think he would be standing upon London Bridge with the decision to end all. He had wanted to go out fighting but now, he understood it was best.

His eyes closed, his heart pulling up memories of Baker St. Sweet John in his jumpers, those damn, gorgeous jumpers. John smiled up at him over a cup of tea; that divine adoration the doctor had for him glowing in his eyes. _"I love you. John. I love you."_ Sherlock repeated over and over like a prayer. Finally saying the words he had never spoken out loud, his lips breaking into a smile as a tear dripped down his cheek, lost to the rain. Sherlock raised his arms, a flash as he remembered falling from the rooftop of St Barts to the pavement below. No, now his true body would be lost to the Thames. If his body was found Mycroft would have it disposed of quietly, not to alert anyone that Sherlock Holmes had been living all this time. He moved his right foot slightly forward, gaining himself only a moment spare for a more elegant fall.

A strong arm wraps around his waist, his breath escaping from his lips as he is pulled back, falling back across the pavement with a pained 'ooft',his thin frame colliding with the harsh pavement.

"Not on my watch buddy." A rough voice huffed beside him. His heart stopped. His body shook not only from the cold but from the understanding. His head turned slowly to look at his rescuer, the rain clouding his vision he moves his face closer to truly see through the dark greys. Whilst the voice was rough and breathless it was unmistakable. He looked back into the olive green of the man who owned his heart.

_"John!"_ He breathed. His panting rescuer shifted on his side, his head quirked with surprise as he looked at Sherlock. Slowly recognition dawned on the doctor's face.


	2. Carry On PART I

**Hello again my dear readers, **

**Readers I must confess, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson have not SHOOSHED in my mind for the past few days. I have barely slept or done much except gaze out the window as these two characters chatter at me of what to write. I have the 'Three Patch Problem' I may choose Sherlock's form of addiction and turn to nicoteen patches if they don't let me get some rest x.x ANYWAY~ Onwards to John Watson P.O.V, he's the loudest of all, not even Sherlock could outscream him xD. **

**This chapter is set into two parts, I think. I had been planning to continue writing this chapter for much longer, but I thought perhaps it best to submit a new chapter and cut the chapter into two parts. **

**John's P.O.V of the events leading up to his reunion with Sherlock. **

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Onwards...

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_"He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him."_

16th of June 2012. The date of John's last post on his blog. John was a man of his word; He believed in Sherlock and he waited.

His dreams, once filled with images of the war, the deaths of men he had worked alongside who he had seen as 'friends', as close as a friend could be in a warzone.

He'd dreamed of the men and victims of war he had tried to save as a doctor, his hands pressing down as blood spurted from fatal wounds.

John's hands felt drenched in blood, blood he'd failed to save. He would wake up shaking, clutching his hands to his chest as if the blood was still literally hot on his hands, the sticky bodily fluids crusting on his fingers and palms.

He'd had these dreams at Baker St, shaken awake by Sherlock with concern reflecting in his piercing grey eyes. On the worst of nights Sherlock would boil the kettle, sitting on the armchair he'd placed in John's bedroom for these nights, listening to John talk about memories of war.

But John had never known the truest of nightmares until he had seen his greatest friend Sherlock Holmes fall from St Bart's rooftop.

Sherlock's suicide haunted John's dreams more viciously than any of his memories from Afghanistan. The scene was played out over and over, not always at St Barts but anywhere with a high rooftop;

Sometimes he dreamed he was behind Sherlock, only centimetres away and almost able to reach out and grasp that long, billowing coat, but Sherlock would fall before he could catch the heavy material of his coat, feeling Sherlock's life slip through his fingers.

That John could not save Sherlock filled him with self-loathing and sorrow. He would wake up screaming Sherlock's name, shaking violently as sobs racked his body.

There were no more gentle touches from Sherlock to wake him from these dreams, no cups of tea and aroma of bergamot to sooth his nerves, the armchair beside him was empty, he hated to admit that it may forever be so.

John had returned to an empty apartment at 221b Baker St. Immediately his body stiffened as he pushed open the front door, standing in the doorway at the sight which waited for him.

It was exactly as they'd left it, every sheet of paper that Sherlock had tossed carelessly in the air lay strewn across the carpet and desk;

The painted smiley face on the wall marked with bullet holes from Sherlock's moments of utter boredom.

Sherlock's prize harpoon which had found its home beside the window against the old desk.

As his eyes swept over the room John saw Sherlock's laptop jutting out of the couch pillows, a sight 24 hours earlier he would have chuckled at with amusement.

But one thing was missing from the apartment, one crucial element that made up the room especially; Sherlock. A shuddering breath escaped John's lips as he stepped further into the apartment, pulling himself up as a soldier he forced himself across the room to his own armchair, slumping down heavily.

He found himself gazing with vacant eyes across to Sherlock's armchair. Beside the seat on the coffee table sat a half-finished cup of tea and a small porcelain plate with a munched on Ginger-nut biscuit-John had learned these were Sherlock's favourite biscuits as he enjoyed the tingle they left in his mouth, especially with a hot cup of tea.

The tea and biscuits were the remains of Sherlock's final meal. Unable to sit quietly he rose from his seat and paced across from the fireplace, he knew it was something Sherlock used to do, seeking in this action to find SOMETHING that would explain the last 24 hours to him. It wasn't making sense, this was SHERLOCK for God's sake….Sherlock wouldn't end his life….Sherlock was **REAL;**

John sighed, bringing his fingertips to his eyes he rubbed them viciously.

He cursed Sherlock then, cursed that he had come to rely on that stupid, unbelievable, foolish, incredible, breathtaking suicidal…git.

Sherlock had saved John from a future of depression, alcoholism and probably his end at the point of his own gun to his temple.

His hand fell from his face, shaking his head clear of thoughts and walking from the living room up the stairs to his bedroom, opening his chest of draws and extracting two small white pills which would see him through for a good several hours undisturbed sleep. He swallowed them dry, collapsing onto his bed and not bothering with the bed sheets.

He slept right through till mid-afternoon the next day, rubbing his forehead with an inward grumble, looking at the blaring red numbers on the digital alarm. His mobile buzzed in his pocket, pulling the demanding thing out.

His sleep filled eyes making out on the shining screen he had twenty-eight missed calls and text messages from Lestrade, Harry and also Mycroft, desperate to get a hold of him.

"What's Sherlock got himself into now?" John grumbled to himself, burying his face into the pillow. Sherlock. Moriarty. St Barts. Sherlock. Falling….He gulped, turning over slowly as he sat up from his waist, memories of yesterday flooding him at an overwhelming pace.

His mobile vibrated again in his hand, frowning at the device as he pressed answer;

"John?" Mycroft's voice spoke, John knew the Holmes brothers well enough to detect a sliver of anxiety in the older Holmes voice.

"H-Here." He coughed, calming his own voice which threatened to break.

"Are you decent?" He heard an echo of Mycroft's voice downstairs in the flat, his answer the only thing holding Mycroft back from coming upstairs to John's room.

John had a moment to pull himself together, brushing his blonde streaks of hair down on his clammy forehead, taking deep breaths to calm himself as he answered Mycroft, faintly noticing the measured footsteps of the man as he moved up the steps to the bedroom.

Mycroft had only to push the door for it to open, looking in at John who looked back wordlessly.

"John," Mycroft hesitated in the doorway, gripping the handle of his umbrella in his long spidery fingers, "I know how you must hate me….and rightly so….but I'm here. If you need anything you have only to ask." Mycroft's eyes looked up at him, his piercing grey eyes reminding him so heartbreakingly so of Sherlock John had to look away, exhaling sharply.

"You can't give me what I want Mycroft. What I want is lying on a cold metal slab in St Bart's morgue, cold and unmoving….you can't bring your brother back from the dear can you? Can you give me a miracle?" Whilst John knew how impossible his wish was his eyes begged for the impossible.

"Oh John, I truly am sorry." The older Holmes was truly remorseful as he looked back at a broken hearted John Watson, his eyes softening as John hunched over and sobbed.

John's world crumbled around him, whimpering into his hands as hot tears cascaded down his cheeks.

His shoulders shook as sobs wracked his tired body, tired from lack of sleep from the final case;

Tired from grief of the loss of his best friend.

Feeling a soft, firm grip on his shoulder, warmth seeping in from the single touch that reminded him of Sherlock. He looked up into those grey eyes, visualising curls of chocolate brown hair framing the face of the man above him, a V-Shaped smile on those lips.

"Oh Sherlock," John's arms wrapped themselves around Mycroft's waist, crying into the pressed pinstripe. Mycroft stiffened momentarily, slowly warming to John's touch, wrapping a comforting arm around the Doctor's shoulders.

The funeral had been a small procession. Sherlock never enjoyed too much fuss at funerals. It seemed surprising that Sherlock had had the patience to write a will, leaving most of his possessions to John and some small things to Mrs Hudson and Mycroft.

His will clearly dictated the funeral was to be small, perhaps he had guessed that so few people would attend.

With the papers flooded of the 'Fake Genius' Sherlock's fan base had become a small group, mostly consisting of his closest colleagues and landlady.

Donavon and Anderson looked reluctant to be there, Sally pressing herself against Anderson's arm with her lips pursed as a single tear dripped down her cheek. John was grateful they were there, whilst neither of the pair had been kind to Sherlock, they still cared in some small….very small, way.

After the procession had left the cemetery, Mrs Hudson walking tearfully away, John had been left at the grave alone.

His fingertips ghosting over the gold inscribed name of SHERLOCK HOLMES. There had been no inscription left for the detective's headstone. Perhaps the blank slate was for others to make up their own parting words. John traced with his index finger the message he would have left on the jet black stone "He was the wisest man I have ever known." Leaving the grave John felt a chill pass over his skin.

He could almost have sworn he felt the familiar gaze of Sherlock watching him.

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**Expect another chapter in less than a couple of days, possibly tomorrow if I have the energy.**

**Please, Please Review. My readers words mean a great deal to me 3**

**Much love, Happy Reading**

**Anne xox**


	3. Carry On Part II

_My dear readers, _

_I apologise for taking so long to write the next installment of this story, _

_Real life had other plans for me I'm afraid, around my 20th Birthday celebrations an abrupt breakup with my boyfriend left me with little desire to concentrate on writing. _

_But I have pushed myself to write this, even now as I type this Author Note to you all my body is begging me to sleep._

_Continuing with John's point of view of what happens after Sherlock's 'suicide' up to their meeting once again, as I know you've all been greatly waiting to read. _

_I've written a very humane Mycroft Holmes. I love Mycroft Holmes, he's pretty damn awsome in the series and personally I think he's a little under appreciated at times but eh, thats just my view._

_Once again please PLEASE leave me a review for this chapter, or for the full story so far. Its worth it in the long run I promise ^.^_

_Anne  
_

**SHOUT OUT TO TUSK OF THYME:** Thankyou for your beautiful review, your words truly meant alot to me thankyou. I hope to hear more of your opinions on the story as it progresses ^.^

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**JOHNLOCK FOREVER**

**I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES AND JOHN WATSON**

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_**Back to our boys~**_

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.

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.

.

John would make two cups of tea when he found his lips dry and cracked, throat parched, the scolding hot tea burning down his throat but he barely felt it; He would leave a cup beside Sherlock's armchair with two Gingernut biscuits.

John was numb. John was tired. John was alone.

John texted Sherlock's mobile constantly even though the broken mobile lay in a drawer of Sherlock's desk. Whilst it was small communications to a dead man's device it was one of the few times he would communicate.

**OUT OF MILK- JW**

**NUMBER DISABLED**

**I LEFT YOUR SECRET STASH UNDER YOUR ARMCHAIR YOU BIG GIT-JW**

**NUMBER DISABLED**

**FIX YOUR PHONE-JW**

**NUMBER DISABLED**

**SHERLOCK…-JW**

**NUMBER DISABLED**

**LESTRADE POPPED BY TODAY. TOLD ME HE BELIEVED IN YOU-JW**

**NUMBER DISABLED**

**I HOPE YOU DON'T MIND ME BORROWING YOUR DRESSING GOWN, COLD-JW**

**NUMBER DISABLED**

**I'LL THROW OUT ALL YOUR EXPERIMENTS IF YOU DON'T COME HOME THIS INSTANT-JW**

**NUMBER DISABLED**

**SHERLOCK IT'S BEEN MONTHS, WHEN WILL THIS END?-JW**

**NUMBER DISABLED**

**I KNOW YOUR ALIVE!-JW**

**NUMBER DISABLED**

**ENOUGH IS ENOUGH-JW**

**NUMBER DISABLED**

**PLEASE-JW**

**NUMBER DISABLED**

**PLEASE-JW**

**NUMBER DISABLED**

**SHERLOCK..-JW**

**NUMBER DISABLED**

**GIT…-JW**

**NUMBER DISABLED**

**THE HOUSE IS SO EMPTY-JW**

**NUMBER DISABLED**

**I MISS YOU-JW**

**NUMBER DISABLED**

**DAMN IT SHERLOCK-JW**

**NUMBER DISABLED**

**COME HOME IF CONVENIANT –JW**

**NUMBER DISABLED**

**IF INCONVENIANT COME ANYWAY-JW**

221b was bitterly empty. The deafening silence gave only the reminder to John that Sherlock would never again be sitting in that armchair, fingertips stapled together as his thoughts resided in his Mind Palace. The apartment had been left to John.

He knew Mycroft paid the other half needed for rent but John's name alone was written on the lease.

John barely meddled with the apartment. He wanted to feel like Sherlock was still there, untouched. John relished in denial, he knew it wasn't healthy but he couldn't find himself giving a damn.

At least in denial he could somewhat function.

Mycroft occasionally visited, once every couple of weeks, keeping an eye on the doctor.

Whilst Mycroft had annoyed John greatly in the past, Mycroft never pushed John to 'Move forward' as Harry had.

Mycroft simply sat, his hand on his umbrella handle and observed John. It became a routine check-up, and John found it slightly comforting.

On one day Mycroft arrived but could not stay long, vaguely placing a plastic bag of milk and butter on the kitchen table, he himself had not done the domestic task of shopping, eyes down at his phone as he moved to leave.

John had panicked, reaching out to grab at Mycroft's coat. Coat…he froze, the material of the coat clutched in his fingers. Mycroft had turned and looked first with annoyance, eyes then softening with concern as he looked at the Doctor.

John looked back up at Mycroft, shaking his head with anxious eyes which Mycroft slowly understood.

From that moment on Mycroft made his visits an important date on his schedule, John always had a cup of tea waiting for the older Holmes.

On one day John had decided to venture out he found himself walking to St Barts.

Standing outside the great building he gazed up at the very rooftop where his nightmares took place.

Lips pressed in a thin line as he neared the footpath, kneeling down to brush his fingertips over the cement he saw flecks of pink faded into the grey.

He had hurried home, slamming the front door behind him as he ran up the stairs to his room. He slumped back against his bedroom door, panting, heart racing he whimpered, cursing himself, cursing Sherlock, cursing Moriarty and cursing the whole fucking world.

At some point he found himself sitting on the end of his bed, fingering his gun with his sweaty fingers. He had raised the gun to his temple, pressing the cold metal firmly against his skin and feeling the pounding ache his mind begged him to end.

Sherlock was gone. John was nothing without Sherlock, **HIS** Sherlock.

Tears brimmed and dripped down his cheeks as his body shook, lips trembling he tried to find in his being the energy to pull the small lever of metal that would take away his pain and free him…perhaps Sherlock waited on the other side.

He had never been one to believe in something beyond this life but oh how he wished in that moment that if there was a place that Sherlock would be there.

He barely registered voices around him, the deep authoritive voice of Mycroft which softened as he neared John, the anxious shrieks of Mrs Hudson as she feared losing another of her 'boys' to suicide.

Mycroft's hand's gently unwound John's fingers from the gun, emptying the weapon of bullets and tossing it to the bed, the bullets hitting the floor like a shower of metal.

Mycroft wrapped his arms around the doctor, sighing to himself as he rocked John back and forth. Mycroft was not one to comfort, but he had done so with his brother in their youth.

He knew what a human being needed to feel safe secure and supported and he damn well owed it to John.

The near suicide attempt shook John from his state of numbness, bringing him back to the real world and a strong will to try again.

He began with baby steps, eating more than the small portions he had been barely consuming; He would take strolls in the park, boosting his vitamin D levels as he felt his bones strengthen, body regaining its health over time.

He returned to work, taking on a couple of patients a day and before long he was applying for a job at St Barts, having received a recommendation and a firm push from Mycroft. His salary was generously upgraded, top paid surgeon he had many great patients that he mentally catalogued.

He began to date again.

He still felt much like a mental and physical wreck, unable to see what could possibly be attractive in him in a woman's point of view, but as his career boosted so did his love life.

Each relation lasted a month, maximum two. He wasn't massively interested in a romance, he was still recovering-he would tell himself.

He never took a woman back to Baker St, whilst they had nagged to see his home he had gently persuaded them not to. Baker St was sacred grounds to him, he didn't wish to have a woman other than Mrs Hudson wondering around the apartment and moving precious memories around.

The woman he dated were very beautiful, he himself could never have imagined dating such beautiful woman.

But whilst he found them beautiful he wasn't as attracted to them as he felt he should have been. He put up the boyfriend act very well, his skills as a doctor gave him a good understanding of the woman's anatomy, especially pressure points and pleasure they loved, yet he himself felt nothing toward it, simply empty inside.

Then Mary had wondered into his simple life.

There was something about Mary.

She was unlike any other woman he had known.

She was playful, out there, excited and had a breathtaking spirit. She practically skipped when she moved, twirling on occasions as she turned and blew him kisses. She spoke funny, a childish giggle and baby talking her words.

He didn't understand why, but he found them undeniably cute.

He loved Mary. It felt like a breath of fresh air around the woman, able to relax and not take the world so seriously around this being was soothing.

Mary was stunning. A petite creature, short pixie haircut of brunette streaks which gently framed her kind heart shaped face.

Mary was a Child psychologist. When he'd first seen her he'd seen a young child in her arms, her face scarred by a third degree burn which her parents had suffered fatally in.

He watched her from outside the burns ward, smiling as she mingled with the children around who naturally flocked to her.

Mary had caught his eye on one afternoon, a quirk of her soft lips as she moved toward him, placing her palm on his arm to catch him before he could scamper off. She'd asked him if he was free that night for drinks and he'd readily agreed to go out with her.

He stopped spending so much time at bars at nights, instead enjoying movie nights which ended with falling asleep on the couch, a bowel of popcorn and a bottle of red wine on the table.

He felt young with her, he hadn't felt this energetic in over a year, at peace with himself and with his life.

Their relationship was slow. It had progressed over a series of months that had been pure bliss. Neither of them had pushed for a more sexual relationship between them.

Like a pair of school children he would first shake her hand. A few months later the handshake had been exchanged for a friendly hug. Months passed before he first kissed her on the cheek.

The first true kiss they'd shared had been on the New Years, one full year after the death of Sherlock.

On the first night they made love John had gulped down a couple of glasses of red before he made an intimate move toward Mary, placing a hand on her knee which he'd slowly inched further up the inside of her thigh.

He had moved to kiss her, pressing his chapped lips against her soft petal lips, his fingertips inching closer to her panties. She'd responded with a barely audible moan, soft as a whisper as she'd wrapped her arm around his neck, her palm pressed to his cheek as she'd kissed him back tenderly.

Their hesitant touches had slowly become more needing, Mary pulling him down upon her on the long couch, the remote falling forgotten to the carpet. Yet whilst his head was telling him how desirable this woman was, this creature before him, legs spread and craving him, John Watson who never thought he could have such fortune as finding himself with a woman like Mary, his body was telling him something else entirely.

He couldn't understand why his body wasn't responding, pulling out of their kiss, worried frown upon his brow as he pushed streaks of hair out of his eyes.

She had raised herself up on one shoulder and looked at him with calculating eyes, it was obvious she could tell he wasn't aroused. "Either I am extremely unattractive, which considering what I've been doing for you for the past half hour would barely make a difference with appearance….or women aren't your type."

John made a strangled noise that sounded like a cough and a yelp combined together.

He looked up at her with irritated eyes, his lips pressed together in a firm line as he looked at her.

"I'm not gay! For God's sake just because I'm a bachelor do people think in their heads that I am gay?" He had pushed himself back against the pillows, looking angrily at the pillows scattered around them with as if accusing them with his glare for the problem.

Mary had slowly moved herself up, tugging her bra back into place and pulling her dress back over her legs. Once composed she looked back at John with curious eyes.

"I had a feeling you might be….not many men watch Pretty Woman and compare the moment where Julia Roberts wears that outright stunning red gown and with Disney's classic Cinderella. It's nothing to be ashamed of or anything. Have you ever found yourself very attracted to a man before? Maybe even just one man?"

She smiled encouragingly back at John, placing a warm hand on his knee as his mind spun.

John's mouth felt dry.

He reached out and grabbed Mary's hand tight in his as a revelation slowly settled in his mind.

His body shook softly, feeling of grief he'd managed to hide under the surface of almost year of 'recovery' fluttered to the surface. He choked on his words, pressing the back of his hand to his lips, a hot tear dripped down his cheek.

"Sherlock…"

John found himself walking the streets of London alone. He barely registered that Mary had wrapped his coat around him as he'd tried to hurry from her flat, his scarf tied in a loose knot around his neck.

The streets echoed of memories, memories he'd been able to suppress and move forward from until now.

At one point he found himself standing on the rooftop of St Barts, gazing down at the pavement below as his mind was flooded with painful memories.

His feet planted on the top of the ledge, the feeling of sinking into the metal and rooting to the spot.

It was the closest he had felt to Sherlock in a very long time, closing his eyes and picturing the great man beside him now, arms outstretched like a fallen angel.

"Sherlock…Sherlock….Sherlock…" He whimpered, a sob building from his chest as he reached out to his vision, longing to feel that coat between his fingertips, catch that perfectly masculine hand in his and protect his Detective.

"I'm sorry….I was too late….I was always too late….I really am a fucking idiot." He laughed to himself, shaking his head with a heavy sigh.

On his return back to Baker St, John went straight to Sherlock's room.

He had not touched Sherlock's room in that full year since the detective's death.

It had been his secret, stashed away in this room, untouched, a memorial which he could treasure from afar.

Turning the handle he pushed, the door swinging open easily to reveal its remembrances within.

Sherlock's bed remained made, strangely tidy compared to the catastrophe of papers and experiments Sherlock would leave in the living room.

John went straight to Sherlock's cupboard, opening the plain white doors to find Sherlock's perfectly pressed shirts and trousers inside.

He pulled out the burgundy shirt which he'd always admired on Sherlock's slim figure.

He brought the material to his face and inhaled. Sherlock's scent washed over him as he breathed.

Falling back onto the bed, curling up to Sherlock's pillow, and his shirt close to the Doctor.

John slept peacefully that night, imagining his detective curled around him, never to leave his side until the first streaks of sunrise which would break the illusion.

John had been curious about his sexuality, wondering into London's very cramped gay bars; He enjoyed his experimentation of experience, thinking Sherlock would be proud.

Daniel had been his first, mid-thirties gentleman who worked with Men's suits imported from Milan.

Daniel had treated John to a few dinners at some fairly fancy restaurants.

John hadn't thought to say no, he needed a distraction, he needed something new and interesting.

John was very attracted to Daniel, their first night together John had never experienced the great pleasures Daniel had shown him. John had been with a few women in his life but not one could arouse him as Daniel had.

John and Daniel had dated for eight months. Daniel as a buyer would be flying around Europe for a month at a time but John never minded, he was patient.

John never mentioned Sherlock to Daniel, Sherlock remained John's secret.

On the eighth month of their relationship Daniel had been unable to stay in London, his career needing him to be mostly in Italy.

He had offered for John to come with him, start a new life in the great fashion city but John had kindly declined. John did not desire to live anywhere except London, whilst he hated losing Daniel, London was his sanctuary.

He'd met Steven at the fish and chippery on Fleets St.

Steven was the owner of the independent shop and had his eye on John from the second the Doctor had entered the shop for a late lunch.

Steven had followed John out of the shop, catching him on the arm asking if he was free that night.

Steven and John had dated for a few months, starting fairly casual and relaxed. John liked Steven because he felt homely; coming home to Steven's was like a new home away from home.

But over time he'd discovered how moody Steven could be, they had argued often, Steven storming out the door and returning several hours later to John, who stood with his arms out ready for their cuddles.

But after a time Steven couldn't do the relationship 'thing' anymore. The shop had closed as Steven could not afford to keep the business with the economy in shambles, breaking it off with John as he simply could not handle 'serious.'

John had met again with Mary sometime after his break up with Steven, her catching him at the café beside St Barts and treating him to a coffee and scone.

John was grateful to her opening his eyes to the truth, telling her about his previous boyfriends to which she'd giggled, covering her mouth when he'd told her about the ever so romantic Daniel and the grumpy Steven.

Before she had stood to leave he'd caught her arm and for the first time in three years he told her, he'd told someone, about Sherlock.

She'd listened to him tell his story about the great man, looking with sympathy as he at times during his story, struggled to explain the greatness that was Sherlock.

He had tugged his jumper to the side to show her he wore one of Sherlock's shirts, needing the comfort of his friend and possibly the greatest man he'd ever loved.

She'd left, kissing his cheek with a soft squeeze on his hand "Believe in miracles again darlin, you may be pleasantly surprised."

He'd chuckled, squeezing her hand back gently and watched as she disappeared out the door into the busy streets of London.

"Fuck!" John quickly opened his umbrella as he stepped into the hectic weather, pulling his coat tightly around himself to keep out the wind.

Stepping out of St Bart's hospital into the streets, barely focused on the pedestrians who hurried around for shelter out of the weather. John pushed through the storming weather, knowing he was an idiot for not waiting for the worst to have passed before making his way home.

It was hard to see in the heavy rainfall, making out shadows and figures in the near distance. As he passed over London bridge, mentally noting to get milk again before he returned back to the apartment for a hot cup of tea, he saw a figure standing on the railings of the bridge.

_"A fucking jumper, in this weather, you have to be kidding me.."_ John grumbled under his breath, dropping the umbrella which spiralled away in the winds he ran as fast as he could, pushing his tired muscles to reach the side of the bridge he wrapped his arm around the figure just as the person had been moving to jump, pulling him back roughly off the ledge so he crashed to the footpath.

"Not on my watch buddy." His voice was rough from his race to save the other, gruff over the harsh weather.

His palms pressed to his knees as he caught his breath, he looked to the other, shaking his head as he could hardly see the face from the rain obscuring his vision.

He looked back down at his knees, considering if he should take the other to a police station or just back to Baker St to warm up with a nice cuppa. He figured Baker St was closer.

"John…" He caught the almost inaudible breathless voice over the winds, frowning at the mention of his name he, quirking sideways to really look at the other. His heart froze. Impossible…

John remained staring at the believed dead detective who looked back at him, his piercing grey eyes staring at him with fear and shock.

John's miracle had come true, his best friend was alive…and all he wanted to do was punch Sherlock in the fucking nose.

He did contemplate it. But as he looked at his friend he took in the physical state he was in he decided strongly against such actions.

Sherlock was shaking from the cold, obviously exhausted and that he had just been standing on London bridge to fall to his true watery grave, he wasn't in any state to handle a punch.

John reached out to catch Sherlock's arm, frowning as his hand wrapped around a very thin arm with hardly much flesh on it even with the thin cotton of the hoodie to obscure it. Sherlock shook, as if wanting to jump back in shock but also craving John's gentle touch.

"Follow me." John's tone held no room for argument, not that Sherlock really could.

The detective allowed John to guide him across the bridge, John unbuttoning his coat so as to wrap them both together in a vain attempt to protect them from the wretched weather.

Finally they made it back to Baker St, John quickly pulling Sherlock inside and up to 221B. Sherlock hesitated in the doorway as John hurried about, cranking the heating up high and popping the kettle on for tea.

John came back to the doorway, looking at Sherlock with worried eyes.

"Come inside Sherlock," He motioned for Sherlock, who walked hesitantly across the threshold, looking this way and that as John gently eased him into his old armchair.

John darted back into the kitchen, making two boiling hot cups of tea and setting out a small plate of Gingernuts which he took on a small tray to the living room.

Placing a mug and the plate beside Sherlock he moved back to his armchair, leaning the tray against the table beside him he held his own mug between his palms, warming his freezing fingers.

He watched Sherlock from this small distance, taking in the shocking state of his friend he was glad he hadn't laid a punch to the Detective's frail features.

"Sherlock," The detective's eyes returned to John's, a question in those familiar yet exhausted, piercing grey eyes.

"Explain."

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**AHA ANOTHER CLIFFY~ Till next time Darlings **


	4. Sanctuary

**Hello again my darling readers, I apologise for the long wait for the next chapter. I came to the point of 'Now What?' that sometimes a writer must struggle with. I came back to my characters like a lost sheep, the famlier voices and tones of their personality soothing for me after long weeks of drama in the real world. Truly these chapters are my sanctuary where for brief moments of writing I can emerge myself in the life of another and be close in heart. **

**SHOUT OUT TO MY READERS AND REVIEWERS:**

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**Katsy17  
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**Tusk Of Thyme  
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**Thankyou for all your fantastic reviews, They truly motivate me to keep writing these chapters and keeping on my toes to keep them updated as much as possible.  
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**PLEASE KEEP CHECKING YOUR INBOX IN THE NEXT COUPLE OF DAYS!  
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**I have set up a facebook account/Skype if anyone is intrested in discussing the stories and chapters.  
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**Much love to you all and I hope you all do well this fine night  
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**Annie xox**

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**AND NOW~Our Boys  
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"Explain."

John's voice was gentle but tinged with a command that a shiver coursed through Sherlock; The familiar tone of his Doctor's voice which he had tried endlessly to remember during his lonely days in that dingy rotting apartment.

He looked across at the table where stood a mug of boiling hot tea John had kindly made for Sherlock to warm his chilled bones.

Tears brimmed as he noted the plate of Gingernuts beside him.

John had always taken care to provide some small thing for Sherlock's stomach should the detective find himself unable to cope another day without nourishment.

He could feel John's eyes watching him across from the armchair. He shivered again, hunching over as the heat warmed his ice cold flesh. He took to looking around the room, taking in his home from a few years ago;

The musky scent of hominess, security, comfort, life…**John.**

He felt like a stranger to this which was all normality once upon a dream.

He sucked on his bottom lip, the chapped dry skin peeling and tugging until he tasted blood as he ran his tongue over his tender lip.

It felt like hours sitting there quietly, the unspoken silence felt endless and long. He knew he should answer John sometime soon, John deserved answers.

He was surprised John hadn't just left him at the bridge when he'd seen the Detective was alive and not lying in a Sherlock Holmes marked grave.

Perhaps once Sherlock had told John everything the Doctor would still throw Sherlock out of Baker St, perhaps he'd land a good punch to Sherlock's jaw beforehand.

Sherlock knew he deserved no better. If John never wanted to speak with him again after this the Thames was still an option that Sherlock was going to keep firmly in mind.

"Sherlock…" Sherlock's head snapped up when he caught John's breathy sigh, clearly feeling the edge of frustration from Sherlock's silence.

"John…"

The Doctor's name was like honey on his tongue. Words escaped him, looking back down in his lap as his fingers fidgeted together. Something wet hit his laced fingers, he hadn't even realised that a tear had dripped down his cheek leaving a wet stein in its wake.

Another tear soon followed as a sob threatened to break from his lips. He brought his hand quickly to his mouth, pressing firmly against his lips to supress the whimpers and further sobs.

He struggled to breathe, trying desperately to breathe through his nose, the air not fully reaching his lungs; Feeling himself suffocating from the grief that surfaced from years of suppression.

Faintly he heard the gentle tap of John's mug being placed on the coffee table, squeezing his eyes shut he could not have seen the Doctor move from his armchair to kneel before the Detective.

Sherlock jumped when he felt the Doctor's hand on his arm, thumb rubbing a soothing circle across the sleeve of Sherlock's hoodie.

"Breathe Sherlock."

How could he possibly breathe?

Sherlock felt like he was drowning and unable to reach the surface.

Perhaps he had indeed jumped off the bridge and this was all a dream, a horribly perfect dream where John's voice would guide him into death.

The lack of air was causing pressure in the Detective's head, the pounding ache almost drowning out the sound of the Doctor's gentle voice.

"I need you to focus on my instructions Sherlock. Do exactly as I tell you." _Yes John_. He wished he could answer his doctor;

"Breathe in to the count of one for me."

John's voice gentle and soothing, pulling Sherlock from his thoughts to focus on his Doctor's soft tones.

He hiccupped as he breathed in to the count.

"Breath out now to the count of one….that's it….now, breathe in to the count of two….breathing….one….two….and out….one…two…..now to three….one….two….three….and out…one….two….three…."

John proceeded to instruct the Detective to count up to five before he finished his small exercise.

The weight in the detective's chest had lessened greatly, breathing deeply through his nose and out through his mouth;

A soft smile graced the doctor's lips; The detective caught the small smile, his breath catching momentarily in his throat.

At John's raised eyebrow Sherlock allowed the breath to escape through his lips, immediately sucking in another gulp of air.

When he saw Sherlock was calmer John slowly withdrew.

Sherlock missed the doctor's hand on his arm as soon as the touch deserted him. He sniffled softly, pouting ever so slightly as he looked down at his hands which had once again wrapped around each other in his lap.

Reluctantly his gaze moved up to John's, surprised at the depth of concern reflecting back in those beautiful Olive green eyes;

"Why where you standing on the ledge of London Bridge tonight Sherlock?"

The doctor had changed his approach, asking a question more direct to the present night. John's voice was gentle as he softly prodded the Detective for details.

"I'm sorry John…"

The detective hiccupped softly, tugging at the sleeves of his hoodie. His lips pressed together with reluctance to speak.

John sighed.

Sherlock wondered if he had pushed the limits of patience of the Doctor.

He faintly heard the Doctor rise from his armchair and move away from the living room. Nibbling at his tender lip he thought to where he would have to return tonight. The apartment was symbolic of his inner hell and loneliness. He'd have to pick up another packet of Cigs on his way back..perhaps something extra tonight. He was never one for drink but tonight he would need to forget in any way he could.

His heart pained against his chest, squeezing his eyes together he imagined the organ beating slow.

He would remember this moment tonight, remembers Baker St and remember John. A fresh memory, perhaps not one as perfect as others, yet to Sherlock it was a small gift.

Where would he go from here? Back to the silence of his prison until he could finish the deed.

"Come on then."

John's gruff voice startled him from his thoughts, looking up at the Doctor with confusion and fear.

John looked back expectantly, his eyebrow still raised as he continued understanding the scene for what it was.

"Up you get."

John prodded. Sherlock looked at the door as the ache of resignation passed over him. Time to return to the cold streets of London and walk out of his Doctor's life for good.

Pushing himself up from the armchair; The rush of movement caused his head to spin rapidly, reaching out to grasp the back of the armchair as his joints, still recovering from the chilled night and rainfall, froze in place.

The doctor's arm wrapped around his waist, nudging Sherlock to rest his weight on John. The Doctor helped Sherlock walk a small way forward, his thumb running a soothing circle over his spine.

The detective was surprised when they detoured away from the entrance towards the bedroom.

"I thought-" John's movements halted, looking with curiosity at the Detective waiting for him to continue.

"Hm?"

"..I thought you wanted-me to leave." Sherlock's voice trailed off to a whisper, not meeting the Doctor's eyes.

"You thought that I…oh Sherlock. I'm a Doctor, did you really think I'd let you out of this apartment in the state you're in? You need rest. I won't let you debate with me on sleep being 'transport.'"

Sherlock nodded wordlessly, allowing the Doctor to guide him to his old bedroom.

Within the small room Sherlock's bed was waiting, clean sheets set on his mattress and folded back in welcome. The small bedside lamp cast a warm glow around the room.

Sherlock slumped down onto the mattress, looking up at John who was fishing around in his closet for something Doctor extracted a pair of silk black pyjamas, placing the folded garments beside the Detective.

"I'll be back in ten minutes. Change into these and brush your teeth, theres a fresh toothbrush on the sink and toothpaste beside it. If you need me just call alright?"

John's voice remained calm and gently parental, smiling softly before stepping out of Sherlock's bedroom to let the Detective ready himself for sleep.

Peeling the pathetic excuse for a hoodie off his cold figure, the material flopping down onto the carpet by his ankles. A plain black skivvy underneath which he tugged up over his head and tossing it to rest with the hoodie. Popping the button of his jeans which slid easily off his thin hips and puddling at his ankles; Stepping out to pick up the shirt of the pyjamas.

The delicate silk was smooth and soft against his skin, tying the ties of the pants firmly in place so they would not slip off his slim figure.

He passed John brewing a fresh cup of tea on his way to the bathroom.

Taking in the familiar presence of his beloved friend as a memory to preserve.

He gazed at himself in the mirror of the bathroom; His cheeks were much hollowed than they had been since he had last looked at himself in this very mirror; Bags under his eyes which were almost purple from exhaustion and little sleep. His eyes reflected back emotions of grief and loneliness, unable to pretend an emotionless pretence to even himself.

He was a broken man. Could he still call himself Sherlock Holmes?

He scrubbed his teeth ferociously, the spearmint fresh mousse preferable than to the stale taste on his tastebuds.

He moved out of the bathroom and back to his bedroom where John waited, holding out mug to Sherlock of Earl Grey. The detective tentatively took the mug, sitting down again on the mattress.

John had removed the pile of clothes which Sherlock had discarded to the floor, kneeling in front of the Detective.

"Do you think you can sleep?" John was smiling warmly to Sherlock, his Olive Green eyes soft as they gazed at the exhausted detective. Sherlock nodded mutely.

"Under the sheets then." John prodded patiently.

Sherlock set the mug down quietly on the bedside table, slipping his feet under the sheets, engulfed in warmth where a hot water bottle greeted his cold feet.

John leant over Sherlock, pulling the sheets up and tucking the Detective in.

"There you go. If you need me at all tonight I'll be in my room, don't be afraid to call."

Sherlock looked up uncertain at the Doctor who swayed slightly on his feet, as if wondering if there was anything else important to add.

"Right…well, goodnight." Patting the Detective's hand wrapped up in the sheet and moving out the door.

Sherlock turned on his pillow to watch the Doctor disappear out the door, allowing a shuddering breath to escape his lips as he settled into the warmth.

He still wondered if this was all a perfect dream which he would waken to his hideaway and back to bitter harsh reality.

Another wave of exhaustion passed over him, unable to fight the push for sleep his eyes settled closed;

Succumbing to the first peaceful night's sleep in months.

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**And there you have it~Until next time Folks**


	5. Striped Jumpers, Breakky and Discussions

**v_TOO CUTE :O  
**

** watch?v=fhgq8anQeEc&feature=BFa&list=UUu76nnyUGu38VRhQdIRpy6w**

**I AM SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO-SOWWIEE .**

**The late update is unforGIVABLE . And I am once again so very sorry for that my dear readers .**

**With the new semester of Collage so came the overload of assignments and work that, if it wasn't studying time it was passing out time...I've had this chapter half written in my SHERLOCK folder for a couple of months, leaving it at 1,000 words-Came back to it very recently and wrote up another 1,000, enough I think, to publish as a chapter;**

**I'm leaping ahead with plenty of lovey dovey-ness between the two-But..isnt that what we adore anyway?**

**As always, I must acknowledge my fans and reviewers, You truly encourage me to write and keep pushing my lil fingers to type type typety type ;D**

**To my Newer Readers and Fans-I thank you for following me, I hope to hear your thoughts in a review-or that you continue reading is a gift in itself ^.^**

**To my reviewers:**

**socalrose-Thankyou sweet, Yes its about sodding time there was some fluffy goodness-I relish it I can assure you-Planning to keep boosting that up as the chapters continue-Thankyou for your support ^^**

**Mistrust-Your supportive Private Messages really clopped me over the head with a positive note ^.^ Thank you for not forgetting me or my stories, thats truly a beautiful heart you have there darlin,**  
**I continue to write with the imagery and descriptions you so adore and compliment on; CHECK YOUR INBOX x3**

**I'm working on some one pieces in relation to the story-REALLY jumping into John's life in Sherlock's absence...Sherlock's life-Drabbles Alerts ;D**

**Also some new stories in mind which I'm hoping to get working on with the next holidays x3 **

**If you must know-I find I write better between 1am-7am, Not something for the week with Collage so this generally waits till Holidays xD When I can pass out till afternoon.**

**AND SO-Without Further delay...WHAT WE'RE ALL WANTING...At least I hope we're wanting...Your wanting...SOMEONE is wanting...IS OUR BOYSSSSS ^.^**

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**OoO**

**OoO**

Some point during the night, John edged the door of Sherlock's bedroom open, poking his head through the crack; Sherlock slept soundly-More soundly than John had seen him sleep before the fall.

That's what it was now- A fall, not a suicide; Sherlock had his hand gently resting on the pillow, a fingertip just touching his lip. The Doctor smiled at the content sleeping face of the Detective.

He leaded against the door frame, a long exhalation slowly emanating through his lips; In some ways, he feared it was a dream.

A terribly beautiful nightmare which he would rather drown in than wake up to a reality without Sherlock;

What now? Would things go back to what they were before? The Detective and The Doctor?

He still didn't know what Sherlock was doing on that bridge, surely not looking to jump.

He had a Sherlock-Sized headache building and a few hours at least before Sherlock stumbled out of bed.

He opted for the couch, staying within hearing distance for the Detective, pulling his jacket over his body and settling his head on the couch pillows.

The steady downpour outside the apartment gently beat against the windows, its rhythm a soft and melodic lullaby.

**OoO**

Sherlock wriggled in the cocoon of warmth and blankets, his fingers curling into the duvet and wrapping himself further into the marshmallow of sheer bliss.

He hadn't slept that well in years; He couldn't remember taking something the night before..and the bed he slept of was softer than the one he had known in the dingy apartment.

Groaning he pressed his face deep into the cushiony goodness of the pillow, inhaling the scent of linen and sleep.

Probably Mycroft's doing; His brother had been trying for months to place his younger brother in a good quality hotel of some kind to allow his body the much needed rest.

Whilst he was not mildly happy that his brother may have finally achieved his goal, he still relished the soothed joints and muscles that had been stiffening up in the makeshift bed of his apartment. Shouting at Mycroft could wait another day.

Sherlock stretched his legs, toes curling around the cooled hot water bottle, arms stretching as his shoulders cracked.

Inhaling deeply he allowed his eyelids to flutter open;

The first thing which graced his lids was the morning light streaming in through the window; Blinking hazily as the room slowly revealed itself to be his own.

Surely he must be dreaming…and possibly his most graphic dream yet.

The storm-London's flooded streets-

London Bridge….

John.

Sherlock immediately jumped from the bed, his long legs tangling in the blankets and he fell to the floor with a thud.

Rubbing his temple and rising from the carpeted floors he looked down at himself to confirm that he was indeed in the black silk pyjamas that John had fished out for him to wear.

He could hear the sounds of John in the kitchen, loud clanking of pots and the whistle of the kettle; All, a dream from long ago, the familiarity of John.

He stood, looking at the doorknob which seemed to mock his hesitation to walk out to the kitchen and have the final confirmation that he was indeed home with John.

Shaking his head, curls of chocolate hair falling to dangle before his eyes which he palmed away, he rested his hand on the knob and slowly turned it.

The door opened easily; The Detective immediately greeted with the aromas of bacon and eggs which wafted through from the kitchen.

His bare feet stepped cautiously through the room, finding John pouring a mug of coffee which devoted the Doctor's full attention.

John was wearing one of Sherlock's favourite shirts; A fitted big black and white horizontal striped spencer which displayed the ripples of his muscles moving beneath the thin fabric.

Sherlock just watched from his spot behind the counter, rooted to the floor.

John placed the kettle back on the setting, turning from his mug to grab the milk from the counter behind.

He nearly dropped the Milk when catching sight of the detective.

"Oh-Sherlock! Your awake-" John exclaimed at a loss of words but to state the absolute obvious, "I, erm…Did you sleep well? Breakfast?"

The Doctor proceeded to jingle a pan of eggs and bacon in front of him as if to seduce the Detective with the sight and delicious scent.

Sherlock swallowed, glancing down at his bare feet;

At Sherlock's silence a frown passed over the Doctor's features, placing the pan down on the stove and moving around the counter, placing a hand on the Detective's shoulder.

"Sherlock-" He breathed, concern deep in his olive green eyes.

Sherlock looked back at him with doe eyes, the press of John's hand on his shoulder allowing warmth to seep through his shoulder blades.

He was filled with the sudden desire to sink into the Doctor's warmth, inhale the typical John scent and forget everything that probably should be remembered.

His body shook slightly, tremors passing through; His hand, suddenly cold and shaking, began to edge up to John's arm.

Fingertips grazing the cotton of John's spencer, slowly curling to gain a light grip on the fabric.

John watched him wordlessly, looking at the hand which now loosely held at his spencer.

Sherlock nervously edged closer, wanting a closer proximity between him and the Doctor;

John seemed to catch the message that Sherlock was needing his touch; His eyes softening, John allowed Sherlock move at his own pace, wrapping his arm around Sherlock's shoulders when the Detective closed in enough to nuzzle against John's shoulder.

Sherlock sighed, his breath brushing over John's earlobe and sending a shiver down the Doctor's spine.

Sherlock's body was acting of its own accord, responding to an inner thirst for comfort which he had long dreamed of in its exile from home.

As the Detective edged back into reality, he edged slowly from the touch, anxiously glancing up to catch the Doctor's gaze. John looked back at him with a smile of understanding and fondness which left Sherlock breathless.

"I-Sorry" He croaked, backing up until his back pressed against the counter.

John chuckled, shaking his head with a smile "It's all fine." The familiarity of the phrase was intended to calm the Detective down, comfort him with something from better times.

Sherlock licked his lips nervously, scratching at his chocolate curls. The brief embrace with the Doctor had left a pool of desire which had bubbled up in his stomach. His hand fell to wrap on the edge of the countertop, looking up again at John.

"Well…ehrm…-" John stuttered, looking around the room as if for a conversation starter, "I think…we should have breakfast…and then, are you up for talking?" The Doctor locked his gaze on Sherlock's with seriousness "I don't want to rush you…whatever the reason for…for everything, I trust that you have a good reason…If after you decide your place isn't here anymore I won't stop you, ….but, you still have a lot of recovering to do before I let you walk off anywhere, I am asking you to stay long enough to recover. Please."

Sherlock remained silent, looking back at John wordlessly; The Doctor's words slowly processed through, the last pleading "please" echoing in his mind.

That John wanted him to stay despite everything, still puzzled him; He underestimated John's patience it seems-especially in such a trivial matter; He nodded wordlessly, turning toward the living room with measured steps.

John remained in the kitchen, moseying around with the coffee and breakfast, plating up for himself and Sherlock; Balancing two plates and a coffee, he placed one before Sherlock with his coffee exactly as he liked it, black two sugars, flicking his wrist to cool his fingers from the heat of the mug;

He disappeared and returned with his own coffee, white no sugar, cutlery in hand; With the fork and butter knife he motioned to Sherlock "Eat," with a tone that left the Detective no room for argument;

Picking up his plate and balancing it on his knee, Sherlock picked at the eggs with the fork-His body was hungry, emanating a gentle rumble in desire from the wafting aroma of breakfast;

John was watching Sherlock as the Detective timidly ate, ensuring every morsel of food made its way into Sherlock's mouth;

One John had cleared away the breakfast plates, the two sat cradling their mugs of coffee in silence.

John was the first to break it-"Sherlock...what happened on that rooftop?"

Sherlock was silent, index finger tracing the rim of his mug as he stared absentmindedly at the carpet; John thought for a moment that Sherlock wouldn't answer; emanating a slow sigh from his lips as he leaned back against the armchair;

Placing the mug on the table he rubbed his temples, eyes closed as he felt that headache inching back with venom;

"The rooftop wasn't the beginning." Opening his eyes at the voice of the Detective, John glanced up, surprise evident in his olive eyes;

He didn't speak, simply nodding with encouragement to the Detective.

"Moriarty was growing tired of the game. He wanted everything to go off with a final bang, something to shake London and the players within his scheme. I suspected he would try to kill me in some way, something that would finalise my end with a final stab of humiliation. I took extra precautions and put a plan together with Molly. I would have to prove to Moriarty that whatever he had done had indeed killed me-Molly was quite a helper. -She would administer to me Amiodarone that would give me the appearance of death, slowing down my heartbeat; It last for several hours-Enough time for the appropriate people to declare me dead; On that day…I texted Moriarty to meet me on the rooftop. When you believed Mrs Hudson had been shot and you rushed away to Baker St-Moriarty alerted me by text that he was waiting; Before I wondered up I texted Molly to arrange a truck to wait just below St Barts, cushioned with wheat bags to break my fall; I didn't think I'd be walking back the way I'd come –Not if this was the final play; Moriarty told me…"

Sherlock broke off, licking his bottom lip as the memories flooded through of that fateful day, Moriarty's cooing voice ringing in his ears as loud and clear as it had been that very day-

"-He told me if I did not jump…complete his story that I was nothing but a Freud…he would shoot everyone I cared for-Burn the heart out of me..as he had promised. He had a sniper trained on Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and…You." Sherlock glanced briefly up to meet John's gaze, searching the Doctor's eyes for emotions-John's face reflected back dawning dread, understanding flooding through his small frame. "Moriarty shot himself-He was the only hope I had of escaping without the fateful jump; When I called you….I had to make you believe me….they would have killed you…they had very clear instructions-I couldn't lose you John."

Dropping John's gaze, Sherlock stared idly at the mug in his lap, the deep murky depths of the cooling coffee reflecting his pained eyes;

"You had no pulse." John nudged Sherlock on, his voice calm and soothing, breaking Sherlock out of his trance;

A faint chuckle rumbled from the Detective's chest, smiling with a hint of humour from within the depths of sadness.

"As always, you see but you do not observe."

Glancing up with fondness at the doctor Sherlock continued

"-There was a stress ball in the Lab, I was fiddling with it earlier that afternoon. Placing it under my arm after I fell prevented my pulse from being readable from my wrist. And-"

He raised a hand as the doctor opened his lips to ask his next question

"-Molly took blood from me before rooftop, she was waiting for me once I'd rolled off the truck. She smuggled me out of the morgue later, Mycroft took care of the rest."

Silence descended on the two; John slowly processing everything Sherlock had told him-A gentle frown creasing his brow as the events of that day fell into a more understandable puzzle; Sherlock looked toward the fireplace, embers from the night before dusty on the floor;

The Doctor sighed, his breathe breaking the silence between the two; "What were you doing on top of London Bridge last night….Sherlock?" Licking his lips, partly relieved that the question was out on the table, so to speak, but-Also dreading the answer;

Sherlock remained quiet-inhaling with deliberate slowness as if delaying his response;

"Life was empty and pointless without you…John."

* * *

**:O IS THIS THE CONFESSION?**

**STAY TUNED :D**


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